Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (42 page)

Something magical had happened to Simon.

Last night he’d gone to bed as normal Simon, but this morning he’d woken armour-plated. Or maybe Teflon-coated. But, whichever miraculous substance had covered him, it meant that nothing the twins could hurl at him managed to get through. He’d woken up to discover he was invincible!

‘Rank,’ Scarlet sniffed, the nanosecond she got into the people carrier. Simon had been waiting, engine running, for Scarlet to finish burying her natural features in make-up and deign to throw herself into the car. ‘It smells like someone’s just hurled!’

Simon whacked the people carrier into gear and expertly reversed down the drive. If he put his foot down, he might still get them to school on time. Not that the twins cared whether they were on time or not – they didn’t give two stuffs! Normally Simon would have given a stuff that they didn’t give two stuffs. He’d have got stressed and uptight – blaming himself for his teenaged children’s inability to get themselves dressed, showered and breakfasted in under two hours and cursing
himself for his inability to provide authoritative alpha-male leadership via a string of prominent Hollywood roles.

But today was different.

Today, nothing could chink his good mood. Because today he wasn’t just Simon Drennan, moderately successful provider of his kids’ five-a-day, and major embarrassment of a dad … Today he was Simon Drennan, winner of the Austin Jones seal of approval and proud owner of the professional appraisal ‘quite good’.

He eyed the scowling fruits of his loin. Suddenly he had a suicidal urge to impress them.

‘Very observant, Ms Drennan,’ he cheerfully praised his daughter. ‘Your nasal skills are top notch. Someone
did
indeed hurl in our car …’ He paused – a touch longer than an
X Factor
reveal, but just shy of a Chris Tarrant
Millionaire
. ‘Austin Jones!’

‘Austin Jones?’ deadpanned his daughter. ‘What, Austin Jones, the Hollywood megastar?’

‘That’s the one!’

She curled her lip with a snort. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘What do you mean, “Yeah, right”?’ Simon buoyantly quizzed her, her disbelief in his A-list connections bouncing off his armour like a squash ball on a court. ‘Is it
so hard
for you to believe that I was out drinking with my friend, Austin Jones, and that after a few too many he “hurled” in the back of my car?’

‘You’re embarrassing yourself, Dad,’ Euan informed him, his eyes glued to his phone.

‘Big time,’ Scarlet agreed. ‘As if Austin Jones would be mates with
you
. He’s, like, mega famous.’

‘He’s an actor,’ Simon replied mildly. ‘Just like me.’

‘Yeah, just like you,’ his son snorted.

‘Austin Jones is
juice
, Dad,’ Scarlet informed him. ‘You’re just an ungoogleable.’

‘I’m on Google!’ Simon protested.

‘Duh! As if
that’s
what it means.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m telling you,
that vomit
came from Austin Jones’ stomach. And you, my lovely children, are breathing in molecules of A-list thespian chunder.’

Scarlet pulled a face in disgust. ‘You’re gross, Dad.’

‘Retarded,’ Euan concurred.

But Simon just smiled, impervious. He drove on in maddening silence.

And then Scarlet couldn’t help herself. Despite a lifetime of disinterest in every word ever uttered by her father, she asked, ‘You’re seriously trying to tell us that, of all the cars in the world Austin Jones could throw up in, he chose to throw up in ours?’

‘Uh huh.’ Simon grinned happily.

‘You’re sick, Dad, you know that?’ she told him. ‘And not in the good sick way.’

‘Sick Nick,’ Euan traitorously sniggered, psychologically kicking his dad where it hurt most. ‘Sick Nick and his fantasy friend.’

For a brief, micro-fraction of a second, Simon felt metaphorical pain. But then the Teflon took effect and his children’s
insults slipped harmlessly away. He couldn’t blame their scepticism, he reasoned. No teenager’s impressed by their parent. And six weeks ago
even he
wouldn’t have believed Austin Jones would throw up in his car. But, one day, Euan and Scarlet would admit to their error. One day, they’d regret their casual dismissal of their father’s acting prowess and big-league celebrity connections. One day they’d understand that he was indeed ‘quite good’.

And to the annoyance of his offspring, Simon started to whistle.

Roxy stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and sat numbly on the edge of her bed. Was she in love with Woody? The very thought was making her shake.

She’d been in lust before – loads of times. It was usually a two-week shagathon with a band member, fuelled by booze and post-gig-high sex. When the tour bus moved into the Chunnel, she’d scoot back home to everyday life, memories of her latest all-time-favourite-shag-ever receeding faster than Calum Best’s hair.

But this was different.

This time, she’d not even kissed him.

This time she’d fallen in love.

But what the hell should she do about it? It felt like a milestone moment – a sing-it-from-the-rooftops piece of info; a hug-strangers-on-the-street piece of news. Surely you weren’t supposed to just
sit
on this knowledge? If you loved someone, you told them …
right?

But what if the person you’d fallen in love with was awaiting the homecoming of his girlfriend? What if he was definitely,
totally attached? Did you risk humiliation and upset? Did you tell him your big news, even if only to get it off your chest?

Suddenly Roxy stood up. She knew what she’d do … She’d do what every girl did in a crisis – she’d nip to the shop for some beetroot. There was a new recipe she wanted to try: a beetroot-based Christmas chocolate log. OK, so it was about ten years ‘til Christmas … but she hadn’t had chocolate since 2007 and suddenly, more than anything, she was desperate for the taste.

She flung off her towel and got dressed.

At the top of his ladder, Woody flexed his knuckles. Austin’s jaw had been surprisingly hard. He hadn’t had a fight since … well – ages. Not since that scuffle with a photographer in Stuttgart. He just hadn’t had many reasons to be
that
angry since quitting showbiz. But finally punching Austin had felt good. He could see why people went on about closure. He no longer cared about what Austin had done.

He dropped his hand back into the bucket of water, grasped his sponge and started sudsing Mrs Kippington’s bedroom window. Luckily, it was sunny and mild. Normally the February wind would bite into cuts on his hands, but today’s weather was unusually kind. The sun warmed his back as he worked.

Woody thought back to last night. He definitely owed Roxy an apology. When he’d got home he’d replayed the evening over and he’d suddenly realised that Roxy was right. He
was
a hypocrite. He
had
made judgements without asking. His motives may have been decent, but he
had
been holding the group back. Yes, they were damaged and fragile – but it didn’t mean that fame would damage them
more
. And if Roxy was
right about him, maybe she was right about them all? Maybe recapturing their success
would
be healing for the group? After all, they’d been pretty tough last night. When he’d decked Austin they’d all pulled together. They’d never have done that a few months ago. They’d never have done that before Roxy.

Woody looked over towards Austin’s. He couldn’t see as far as the house – just the gates. A solitary photographer stood outside. Woody smiled. He doubted he’d get shots today – Austin would be growling into his duvet, hungover. He watched the photographer drop his cigarette butt and immediately light up another.

Woody’s smile deepened into a grin. Yes, he had to hand it to Roxy, she was a one-woman force for good. She cared about the group just as much as he did. She wanted them to be happy too. And – if her method got results, then great! It wasn’t a competition. The group was definitely happier. And didn’t having her around make
him
happier too?

Feeling lighter than he had in years, Woody twisted and looked around him. He could see Simon driving back from the school run. Outside the post office, Terence checked his hair in the glass. And on Lime Tree Walk, a determined-looking Sue was limbering up for a jog. And then, between sprigs of early spring blossom, he saw Roxy hurtle towards the village shop. His eyes followed her for a moment. From his spot on the ladder, he could see dark roots starting to poke through the blonde. But it didn’t matter. If anything, Roxy looked softer, more human. She was wearing jeans. In fact, the miniskirts
had been absent a few days now. He missed her legs, he realised with a pang.

Suddenly there was a rap on the window. Mrs Kippington was indignant and naked.

‘I’m not doing this for the ventilation,’ she scolded. ‘Are you coming in, or not?’

Woody’s face broke into a fresh grin.

‘Sorry, Mrs Kippington – I’m taken!’

And then he thoughtfully finished shammying the window.

Sue stood on her doorstep and soaked in the unseasonal sunshine.

She was going to do it.

Just two hours since her jog she was pushing herself out of the house (and her comfort zone) again. And this time she was wearing the duck egg.

She tried to forget the terror churning like acid in her tummy. She tried to ignore the nervous thrill of the duck egg’s first outing. She even tried to block out the cheerful chirrups of the birds in the laurels.

She had to focus.

It was only a few minutes’ walk to Blackberry Lane; just down the road, along the High Street, sharp right and then left. She didn’t even know if the workmen were still fixing the hole. But she was going anyway. Suzi would have done it, and so would she.

She took a last, dizzy breath, let go of the door handle and walked.

She was doing it! For the second time that day, she’d left
the house on un-vital business. The soaring high she’d felt after her jog had outweighed the terrible pain during it. It hadn’t mattered that she’d sweated buckets, nearly punctured a lung, or run at a pace that wouldn’t challenge a snail … the point was she’d tried, and trying had felt great. And now, as – step by step – her feet took her closer to the hole in Blackberry Lane, that high began to return.

Sue ruffled her new fringe as she walked and caught sight of herself in the post office window. Roxy had been right: a fringe
did
suit her. And wearing her hair up
did
make her face look slimmer too. As the sun shone, she thought she caught a glimpse of cheekbone in her reflection. She tried not to laugh in delight.

And then, before she knew it, she was there … Blackberry Lane. And there, too, was the hole and the workmen.

For a moment, Sue doubted her sanity. What was she doing? Builders were the people she most wanted to hide from. Back when
it
had happened, most men had taken a while before calling over – they’d have a few drinks, gather some mates, build up the requisite bravado. But not builders. With their loud whistles and ever-ready patter, she could barely step out her front door without a builder yelling, ‘Show us your sugatits!’ They seemed to have a sixth sense. Any attempt at hiding beneath a headscarf was pointless; their cheerful obscenities were a leper’s bell, alerting the world to her presence. She dreaded them. No matter where she went, or how she disguised herself, builders always
just knew
. And their crudeness cut her to her quick.